


Clear Shot

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir and Boromir are on a hunting trip just inside the Shire. Boromir accidentally shoots a hobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“We are truly lost,” Boromir said, sighing in dismay. He flung his shield to the ground and dug inside his heavy pack. He pulled out a map and rolled it open, shoving it in Faramir’s direction. Boromir could never make heads or tails of maps.

“Well,” Faramir said, studying the map. “We were just in the village of Bree two nights ago; we’ve gotten turned around. We’ve meant to go South, but it appears we’ve gone North instead. It happens. We can camp here tonight and turn around first thing in the morning.”

“What sort of country is this? Is it dangerous?”

Faramir shook his head. “Not much here at all; it is said that the halflings live nearby in holes in the hills.”

“Little folk,” Boromir said with a suspicious glance around him. “Might they do magic on us?”

“Nay, they are harmless. Mithrandir speaks highly of them.” Faramir chuckled a little. “What is the matter with you? What has happened to Boromir the Brave?”

“This land makes me uneasy. I would not put such high stock in what your wizard friend tells you.”

Faramir shook his head. “Let us then find a place to camp. Evening will fall soon. Tomorrow we can make our way back to Bree -- and then home.”

“I detest these scouting missions,” Boromir said, shuddering. “Father should know that there are more important things for his sons to be doing than wandering in these rustic lands.”

“A wise steward knows all his lands,” Faramir said. “If I were you, I would consider it a learning experience.”

“For sure you would,” Boromir said. “Always burying your head in a book, listening to wizard’s prattle.”

Faramir refused to be baited. He laughed lightly and tried to enjoy the rolling green hills, so different from the lands around Minas Tirith. The two brothers walked across an open field that ran alongside a heavy area of woods, and Boromir clutched his bow until his knuckles turned white. Faramir did not understand why his brother was so jumpy. The land to the North was much safer than Gondor. After all, the rangers spent much effort protecting the simple folk who lived here, and they had so far successfully kept the darkness at bay.

Faramir was about to bid his brother relax again, when Boromir spoke again. “I have heard that elves roam this land as well.”

“So they might,” Faramir said. He had hoped he would catch a glimpse of an elf during this mission, though he had been disappointed so far. “It is said they leave for the Havens, to sail over the great sea.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” Boromir said. He startled and grabbed Faramir’s shoulder, dropping his voice to a whisper. “What was that?”

Faramir looked around. “What?”

“I saw something,” Boromir hissed. “Over there in the brush.”

“I see nothing,” Faramir said. He hoped that they would soon find a spot to set up camp. Perhaps then his brother would relax.

“Over there,” Boromir pointed. “Something moved in that brush.”

He positioned his bow and arrow. Faramir grabbed his arm, but Boromir brushed him off.

“What are you doing?” Faramir asked. “You don’t know what it is.”

“I know that it cannot escape my arrow,” Boromir said.

Faramir sighed in disgust. He could not bear the slaying of innocent beasts, particularly the elegant deer that seemed so prevalent in the northern lands.

Boromir aimed and shot in the direction of the movement.

Boromir and Faramir both heard something fall in the brush.

“See?” Boromir clapped Faramir on the shoulder. “My aim never fails.”

“Was it a deer?” Faramir asked. His heart had sped up, and he felt nervous, though he was not sure why.

Boromir climbed to his feet with a determined light in his eyes. “Let us see. Hopefully we will feast on more than dried fruit tonight.”

They entered the woods where they had heard the creature fall, and Faramir’s skin turned cold when he saw a small figure with dark curly hair lying on his stomach on the ground. This was no beast.

“Boromir—“

Boromir let out a sick gasp and fell to his knees beside the small figure. “I’ve shot a child.” He looked up in agony. “What is he doing here, in the wilderness, so far from home…?”

Faramir turned the figure over so that he lay on his back. The lad’s face was pale. Though he was the size of a child of eight or nine, his face looked older, as if he were an older teenager or young man. He was still breathing, but his eyes – a brilliant shade of sky blue – were wide and full of pain. He clutched at his belly, where Boromir’s arrow was deeply imbedded. Blood seeped outward from the wound, soaking the brown vest the lad wore. Faramir noticed that the little one wore no shoes and that hair covered his tough feet.

“Boromir,” Faramir said, his voice faint. “You’ve shot one of the halflings.”

Boromir groaned and walked away, holding his head. Faramir felt new compassion for him. Boromir bragged often about his role as a strong warrior, the savior of the lands, protector of the weak. And now he had wounded a defenseless halfling with his rash behavior.

Faramir crawled closer to the halfling, but paused when the halfling’s eyes widened in terror.

“It is all right,” Faramir said in as soothing a voice as possible. “We are going to help you.”

“I’m…I’m hurt,” the small one said, gasping for breath. His lips were pale, and a sheen of sweat had developed on his brow.

Boromir beckoned to Faramir. Faramir put his hand on the halfling’s brow and whispered, “I will be right back.”

Boromir looked truly pained, and fear shone strongly in his eyes. “I’ve killed him?”

“No. No, he is gravely injured but he is not dead.”

“He will die. We have no way to treat him. Let us move from here – and quickly. Before more come.”

“Boromir!” Faramir said, sickened by the cowardly behavior his brother was showing. “We cannot leave him. He is suffering. We must at least ease him the best we can.”

“What can we do for him?” Boromir asked.

“At least we can build a fire and try to make him as comfortable as possible. I have learned some healing skills.”

Boromir glanced in the halfling’s direction, an uncertain expression in his eyes. “Do they feel pain like we do?”

The halfling cried out, clutching his wounded belly.

“Do you have your answer?” Faramir demanded. He broke away from his brother and ran back to the injured halfling. He put his hand on the halfling’s cheek. “What is your name, little one?”

“Will you take me home?” the halfling asked. His blue eyes were full of pain and terror. Faramir wished more than anything that he had something, anything to ease the little one’s pain.

“We will take care of you and get you help. Now what is your name? I would like to call you something other than little one.”

“Frodo.” He shivered, and his eyes glazed for a moment. “What…what are you doing in the Shire?”

“Frodo, I’m going to lift you now. I will try to be as gentle as possible and not knock into the arrow – I do not wish to cause you more pain. We will find a place where we can light a fire and tend to your wound.”

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes. Faramir’s heart yanked as he saw the large amount of blood on the hobbit’s vest. They were responsible for this. He felt sick. What would Mithrandir think of him now? His brother had hurt an innocent creature, one of the halflings that the wizard spoke so fondly of, out of carelessness and rash fear. Faramir saw the pain in his brother’s eyes and understood that Boromir had learned a life-altering lesson this day. He only prayed that the lesson would not be too harsh, that they would be able to save the halfling’s life.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Boromir threw more kindling onto the newly started fire, barely looking at Faramir and Frodo. Faramir knew his brother well, knew he suffered from horrendous guilt. He had never been good at expressing feelings of vulnerability, and Faramir could almost hear the whir of thoughts in his mind, justifying what had happened as an inevitable accident that could have been prevented if the halfling had never left his house.

Frodo had lost consciousness during the short trek to the camp site. Faramir had set the halfling on his back, careful not to disturb the arrow. He tried to remember everything he knew about arrow wounds. He did not want to pull it out, fearing to do fatal damage, but they were still two days from Bree. If he left it in Frodo’s body, he feared infection and shock.

Faramir lay a folded blanket under Frodo’s feet to raise his feet above the ground. A second blanket he put over Frodo’s legs. He could not cover the arrow, but at least he could keep the halfling’s lower body warm. He felt along the soft skin of Frodo’s neck for a pulse and he was rewarded by a faint, rapid flutter. If something was not done soon to ease his shock, Frodo was going to die.

“Boromir!” Faramir called. “I need your help.”

“I’m making certain the fire is—“

Now was not the time for self-indulgence. “I need your help now!”

Boromir threw the last twigs on the fire and kneeled beside his brother. “How is the halfling?” he asked in a shaky voice.

“We need to get the arrow out, but I fear to do worse damage.”

Boromir shook his head. “You cannot pull it out. You will kill him for certain.”

“Why do you say this?”

“If the arrow is embedded deep enough, it may tear something inside and he will bleed to death. I’ve seen it happen with battle wounds. We cannot take it out.”

“What do you suggest then? We cannot leave it inside him. He will get blood poisoning.”

Boromir swallowed. He looked down at the pale halfling, watched his chest move up and down in shallow breaths. “The best thing would be to get him to Bree. Though.” He shut his eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. “The people of Bree know nothing about battle wounds, and the treatment will be rustic at best. Still, it is better than what we can do for him in the wild.” He looked at Faramir. “We must make certain we save him. Father…I can only imagine what Father will have to say about this.” He shook his head. “So irresponsible. So careless.”

Faramir’s rage nearly bubbled over. Frodo’s life hung by a delicate thread, he was far from his home, probably terrified out of his mind by being taken by two armed men, and all Boromir seemed to care about was whether Father would be displeased. Sometimes he believed his brother had spent too much time training with hardened soldiers. How Boromir could not look upon this halfling and feel anything but horrified pity, Faramir could not understand.

“I care not what Father thinks,” Faramir said in a barely controlled voice. “What matters is that we are able to right this wrong and make certain that Frodo gets the treatment he needs. Now if we cannot take the arrow out, what do we do?” He shook his head and spoke more quietly, more to himself than to Boromir. “With the small amount of training I have in healing, I still feel helpless.”

Boromir at least had the decency to look abashed by Faramir’s strong words, and his voice was surprisingly humble. “We will need something to stabilize the arrow so it does not do more damage.”

“Then quickly cut for me some pieces of cloth from our bedrolls,” Faramir said. “But before you do that, get some water boiling on the fire. We need clean water to cleanse the area around the wound and stop the bleeding.”

Boromir did as he was told as Faramir continued to sit beside Frodo. The halfling’s skin was smooth and fair, and though his eyes were now closed, Faramir remembered their vivid color, like a sky unblemished by clouds. The hobbit looked more as Faramir imagined the elves than as Mithrandir had described the halflings.

Frodo opened his eyes and immediately winced in pain. He looked up at the darkening sky, breathing sharply in pain. His face twisted and a tear ran down his cheeks. His breaths grew more rapid as he focused on Faramir.

“It is all right,” Faramir said in a soothing voice. “We are going to help you.”

“You…you shot me?” Frodo asked in a whisper. “Did…did I do… something wrong…or trespass?”

Faramir shook his head, moved to sickening pity by the innocence of the question. “No, no. It was a terrible accident. My brother thought you were a deer.”

“A deer…” Frodo looked puzzled as he spoke in a halting, barely audible voice. “Why…why would you…shoot a deer? They do…not harm anyone.”

Faramir was about to agree, pleased to have found someone who was of the same opinion about the shooting of beasts, when Frodo’s face contorted in new pain. He grabbed the ground, clenching the dirt and grass, and cried out. New blood – thick and dark -- bubbled up around the embedded arrow.

“Frodo,” Faramir whispered. He placed his hands on Frodo’s cheeks and held him steady. “Boromir!” he shouted. “Quickly!”

Boromir ran to them with the strips of cloth.

“I wish I had something for his pain,” Faramir said through clenched teeth. “This is difficult to watch.”

“You must divert his attention,” Boromir said. “In battle there are never enough herbs to ease the pain. You must make the person forget about it.”

Boromir wrapped a thick cloth around the arrow until it was stable. The cloth was immediately soaked by blood. “How old are you, little one?”

Faramir shook his head. Boromir acted as though he were dealing with a child.

“Twenty…twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?” Boromir chuckled a bit in disbelief. “I think I need to speak to your father. That would make you older than us. Come now, what is your father’s name so I can speak to him?”

Frodo did not smile, and in fact his eyes seemed to cloud over with more pain. “Drogo Baggins, but…he died…thirteen years ago.”

Boromir’s smile faded and he flushed. He secured more cloth over the blood soaked cloth. “There, Frodo. That will have to do for now. We’ll get you to Bree.” He patted the halfling’s shoulder. “There now. What is your favorite thing to do?”

Frodo took several shallow breaths. His hand weakly sought out the arrow, but Faramir held his hand back. “Do not touch it.”

“I like to read. Uncle Bilbo…taught…he taught me…I like to look at nature…” Frodo suddenly threw his head back and his face contorted in pain again. Sweat broke out on Frodo’s face as he clutched Faramir’s hand. Faramir winced at the surprising strength in the hobbit’s grip. Frodo had kicked the blanket off in his struggle. Faramir tucked it over his legs again.

“Why is he in so much pain?” Faramir asked in confusion. “It seems excessive for such a wound.”

Boromir did not answer right away. He seemed lost in a horrifying thought.

“Boromir!” Faramir said. “You have more experience in battle wounds --”

“I must check something.”

Boromir got up abruptly, his face grim.

“Perhaps we should try to get to Bree right away,” Faramir said, watching Frodo’s shallow breathing. “He needs immediate treatment. We cannot linger here.”

Boromir did not answer. He pulled out his arrows and examined them. He sighed in distress, and Faramir looked at him in concern.

“What is it?”

Boromir’s face was naked with guilt and fear.

“There is poison on my arrows.”

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

"What kind of poison is on the arrows?" Faramir asked. His legs trembled with dread, and his heart had never felt so heavy. Once they had stabled the arrow, he had harbored hope that if they got Frodo to Bree as fast as they could, then they had a chance of saving him. After all, he was not bleeding too hard at the moment.

"It…I am not certain how potent the poison is," Boromir said in a shaky voice, and Faramir watched him with sudden pity. If the halfling died, he knew his brother, though he would hide it well, would never forgive himself. "Father gave it to me…I fear I have dipped all the arrows in it. Father told me…the poison is meant to slow down animals who have been injured…supposed to be painless—" He shook his head and let out a shuddering sigh. "I did not mean for this to happen."

"I know," Faramir said quietly, trying to hide his anger as he wiped Frodo's brow. What right did his father have to encourage his son to not only shoot at innocent beasts, but to poison them as well? The halfling's body convulsed with new pain, and a bitter taste filled Faramir's mouth. Why was Boromir so surprised that Frodo was in pain? Poison by its very definition was bound to do harm, cause pain.

Boromir's voice grew stronger, full of new gruffness. "It was not meant to cause pain…though with animals, who can tell?…And I did not begin this scouting mission with the intention of hunting halflings!"

Faramir set his lips in a grim line. "We must move him now. We cannot wait until morning. I curse our decision to leave our horses in Bree!"

Frodo opened his pain-glazed eyes. He looked from Faramir to Boromir, breathing rapidly. "What…what is happening?"

Faramir wiped Frodo's sweat-drenched curls from his brow. "We are taking you to Bree. It seems there is poison on the arrow, which is why you're feeling so much pain."

Frodo closed his eyes. "Poison…" He gasped for breath for several seconds before opening his eyes again. "If I…if I do not survive…Bilbo Baggins, he lives in Hobbiton…he will be worried."

At the mention of Bilbo Baggins, Faramir's heart squeezed in dread. He clenched his hands together. More than once Mithrandir had chuckled about his friend Bilbo Baggins who had gone with him on an adventure to find Smaug's treasure. Now it seemed this halfling who lay before him, suffering from a poison arrow that his brother had shot, was related to Mithrandir's dear friend.

"Do not talk anymore," Faramir finally said. "You must save your strength."

He wrapped Frodo's cloak tightly around him, though he made certain the arrow was left untouched. He lifted the halfling, cradling him close so that his wound was not jostled.

Frodo met Faramir's gaze, his blue eyes brilliant even in the thick darkness. "Take me home…closer…" he whispered. "Do not take me to Bree."

"I am sorry, Frodo, but it is the closest healer that we know of."

Frodo closed his eyes and his body went completely limp. Perhaps it was better that Frodo was unconscious so he would not feel the certain pain that the constant movement of hiking would cause.

Boromir and Faramir walked for hours, into the early hours of the morning. Frodo remained unconscious, breathing with slow, raspy effort. Faramir occasionally felt his neck for a pulse, but each time he checked, it was different -— sometimes slow, sometimes faint and rapid, and other times strong and almost normal, as if his body fought the shock and poison with everything in him.

Boromir stumbled over a root and fell to his knees with a gruff curse.

"We cannot keep at this pace," he said, holding his head in exhaustion. "We must rest or sleep on our feet."

"Then I shall go on alone," Faramir said, looking at Frodo's waxy face. He was weary, too. He could easily see himself setting the halfling on the ground and falling into a deep sleep beside him. He shook his head, stifling a yawn. "I will not allow him to die. The beat of his heart is not steady, though at least the bleeding seems to have clotted. I do not think he can survive much longer."

Boromir lifted himself from the ground and continued to walk. "You make me look very shameful," he said.

"That is not my intention."

"The poison was not meant to cause pain," Boromir repeated in a dull voice. "It is only meant to slow down an injured animal so that the hunter can get close enough…" His voice faded and he released a tense sigh. "When shall we reach Bree?"

"By tomorrow evening if we go without rest."

"So be it," Boromir said. "I have experienced harsher conditions than this. Do you need a rest, Faramir? Shall I carry him for a stretch?"

"He is very light, but I must admit, even the lightest baggage can grow heavy over time." He handed Frodo into Boromir's arms. "Have a care about the arrow."

***

Bilbo Baggins looked out his round door for what felt like the hundredth time. Where was Frodo? It was already very late, and the lad had promised to be back by sundown. He had left with his book in hand, a small pack full of sandwiches and apples on his back, intent on finding a tree far from the village where he could read in peace. Bilbo shook his head, brow puckered in worry. Supper had long since gone cold.

The Shire in the vicinity of Hobbiton was safe as far as Bilbo knew. The Southfarthing occasionally had trouble with outsiders, but there had never been trouble so close to home. Bilbo's heart sank. What if something had befallen Frodo in the middle of nowhere? The lad liked to climb trees –- he liked to view as far as he could of the land beyond. What if he had climbed too high and his feet had slipped?…Bilbo's stomach sank. Frodo could be lying in the dark, far from any village, suffering alone.

"I should look for him," Bilbo said to himself finally. "This waiting is unbearable."

Just as he had put on his cloak, a sharp knock on his door made him startle…and then grow cold with new fear. Frodo wouldn't knock on the door, but if something had happened to him, someone would inform him. Trembling wildly, he threw open the door. When he saw who it was, he nearly wept in relief. "Gandalf!"

"Bilbo, old friend, how are you?"

"I was just about to go out –"

"This late? What is the matter? You look frightened."

"Frodo has not come home. I'm dreadfully worried about him."

Gandalf's brows furrowed. "He is not home?"

Bilbo shook his head, his heart pattering in fresh alarm. Where was Frodo? Where would he have gone?

"Could he have taken a trip to Buckland to visit his cousins?"

Bilbo shook his head miserably. "He told me he would be home by dark. He was going to find a quiet place to read…" Bilbo's voice trembled. "Gandalf, dearest of friends, if anything happens to him, I could not take it. He's the only one I've ever cared about…since Drogo…" A tear ran down his cheek and he hastily wiped it away.

Gandalf put his hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "We'll find him, Bilbo. Chances are, the lad just found some of his rascally cousins and got caught out too late. He probably decided to stay the night elsewhere and was not able to let you know."

Bilbo gripped Gandalf's hand, wishing he could believe the wizard. He had an ominous feeling that filled his stomach with cold dread. With vivid clarity, he saw Frodo attempting to cross a stream, slipping on a slick rock, and knocking his head. He would join the fate of Drogo and Primula, and Bilbo didn't think he could take pain like that again. The idea of finding Frodo pale and lifeless caused his throat to fill up, and he let out a choke.

"Let us wait until morning," Gandalf said. "If he does not arrive by midmorning, we will begin a search for him."

Bilbo nodded, relieved to have Gandalf's presence but wondering how he could possibly sleep if Frodo was out there somewhere suffering…or worse.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Faramir held Frodo close to him, stumbling over the dirt path, tripping over roots and half buried shrubs in weariness, barely aware of his surroundings. Surely they would reach the village soon. They had walked with very few stops all night and all day, and now that the sun had slipped out of sight again, all the hiking and lack of sleep had taken its toll. Faramir's arms ached, and he could not imagine how sore he would be later.

Frodo's eyes snapped wide open, and Faramir's heart sank. He had hoped the halfling would remain unconscious the remainder of the trip so as to spare him further pain. Of course, waking at least meant he was not as close to death as Faramir had suspected. "Shh, Frodo. We are not too far from Bree."

"Home…" Frodo said, his breaths coming out with ominous wheezes. His lips were white and cracked. Faramir knew Frodo must be dangerously dehydrated. Earlier, Faramir had tried to tilt his canteen to the halfling's lips, but Frodo had turned away, shaking his head in miserable pain. Faramir had not pushed it. The last thing he wanted was for Frodo to vomit, thus contracting the muscles in his injured stomach.

"When you are healed, I promise…my brother and I will take you home. And it will not take so long because our horses are in Bree."

Frodo closed his eyes and released several agonized breaths. He opened his eyes again and held Faramir's gaze. Faramir felt drawn into the haunting blue depths as Frodo asked, "Who…who are you?"

Faramir and his brother were wearing simple clothing, similar to that worn by the rangers who patrolled the northern lands. For safety reasons, Denethor had not wished his sons to be recognized as sons of the Steward of Gondor. Faramir actually preferred the anonymity because it gave him a reprieve from the pressure of being the youngest son of the Steward. Boromir grumbled about it, however. Being the heir to the stewardship, he wished to proudly flaunt his position of Captain of Gondor. He wanted everyone in every distant corner of Middle earth to know who he was.

"We come from the distant city of Minas Tirith," Faramir said. Surely the name would mean nothing to a halfling who had never left his little country.

"Minas…Tirith," Frodo said, wonder replacing some of the pain in his eyes. "I know…Gandalf told me…wish he was here now…No use thinking it…You come from the White City…ruled by Denethor?"

Faramir broke into a grin, more than a little impressed that Frodo, who lived the distance of a journey of several months from Minas Tirith, should know even as much as he did about the city.

"Yes, you have been taught well."

Frodo returned the man's smile, which lit up his blue eyes. This halfling had to be irresistibly charming when he was in good health. This thought made Faramir cold inside as he considered the relatives, friends, perhaps a special lass – all of whom would be worried to sickness when Frodo did not return home.

"Bilbo…" Frodo's smile faded. "…he's…he taught me letters…but it is Gandalf…he teaches me of the outside world – " Frodo started to breathe fast, his ashen face contorting with new pain.

"That is enough talk," Faramir said, heart palpitating. Frodo had lasted nearly two full days with an injury grave enough to have killed a strong human warrior.

"No…all right…" Frodo whispered. "I'd rather…hear your voice…There's something…you remind me of him."

"Who do I remind you of?" Faramir asked, forgetting who Frodo had just been talking about. Bilbo? Gandalf?

"Gandalf…the wizard…"

A click of sudden understanding made Faramir nearly drop Frodo -- that Gandalf was the same as the Grey Wanderer, Mithrandir. Of course it made sense -- the connection to Bilbo Baggins, a wizard who traveled to the Shire…

"I know him," Faramir said faintly, a cold ball filling his stomach. "But we know him as Mithrandir. He speaks about halflings and of the Shire." Faramir swallowed. "He'll not easily forgive for this…I'll never forgive myself."

"No," Frodo said, his mouth twisting slightly. "It was an accident…" He managed a haunted smile. "My relatives always said I'd get into trouble because I wander so much…hobbits don't travel."

"Hobbits?"

"That…that is what we…call ourselves." Frodo's voice was faint.

"Hobbits," Faramir said with a smile. "It is fitting. Yes, I think I remember Mithrandir — Gandalf using that term, though it meant little to me at the time." He started to say more, but Frodo had fainted again. Though he had immensely enjoyed talking to Frodo, it was for the better that the hobbit was unconscious again.

***

When Faramir and Boromir finally reached Bree, they could barely stand on legs so weary that they trembled. The lights of the village blurred before them, and Faramir rubbed his eyes, not quite believing that it was not a mirage until he reached the gate. Though he and Boromir had traded off carrying Frodo, his arms were numb and aching.

Faramir wrenched his mind from the siren call of sleep by examining Frodo's wound, around which thick blood had clotted. Frodo was still alive, but he was still unconscious, his breathing slow and shallow, as if he were in a deep but uncomfortable sleep.

"What do you want?" the gatekeeper asked in a sharp voice. Faramir noticed Boromir bristle, though he stayed silent. He had in fact been silent most of their trip.

"We need a healer," Faramir said. "We have with us an injured halfling, close to death."

The gatekeeper inspected Frodo, tsking in sympathy when he saw the arrow, bloody rags holding it in place, sticking out of his belly. "So I see. All right then. I should warn you, the healer has been busy tonight. There was a street brawl earlier this evening. Those wretched Southerners keep slipping into our quiet village, stirring things up. One fellow died, several badly injured. A few hobbits hurt, too…just in the wrong place when it broke out, they were."

 

***

Whenever Frodo thought the pain could not get any worse, another wave hit, more intense than the last, radiating outward from a single point in the middle of his belly. He was cradled in sturdy arms, but that did not stop the agony. He wanted to cry out, but he was too weak. And what was the use? Yelling and groaning wouldn't make the pain less.

It seemed like years had passed since he had left Bag End on a bright, fresh morning with a promise to Bilbo that he'd be back by sundown. He had wandered far from Hobbiton in search of a tree with a perfect perch in which to read his new elvish book that had arrived from Rivendell. He had found the perfect tree, though not without some guilt. He knew he was too far from home to make it back by sundown. Bilbo would be worried. Frodo had just begun to climb the tree when something had smacked into him with enough force to knock him to the ground and render him unconscious. The next he was aware, two huge faces hovered over him and a wretched, fiery agony had ripped through his stomach.

Frodo had never felt so much pain in his life. He had been sick frequently as a youth, but never had he been so gravely injured. The knowledge that an arrow was sticking out of his stomach sent a terrible, breathless panic through him. Warriors and hunters used arrows as a favored weapon because they knew that they were almost always fatal.

He didn't want to die without seeing Bilbo again.

He had never met any of the Big Folk, unless he counted Gandalf, but he had been helpless with too much pain to escape when the two huge men ran to him. Now he knew they had shot him by accident, though what they had been doing in the Shire, Frodo couldn't imagine. They weren't ruffians –- no, there was a noble, smooth quality to their voices, as if they came from a well-learned family -- or they surely would have left him to die…or finished the job. These men -– particularly the one who had carried him most often –- truly seemed sorry for what had happened. But they wanted to take him to Bree and Frodo did not want to go. He wanted to be in his own bed in Bag End. Bilbo would tuck him into his featherbed, brew him some tea, and send for the local doctor, a round hobbit with a kind face. As sick as he was, he did not want to go to an unfamiliar town filled with, as Bilbo had often said, disreputable folk, both men and hobbits.

"…put him on this bed. There now…"

He saw bright light behind his eyelids. He was at last resting on a bed, but the jarring movement of being set on it ripped new pain through him. He could not suppress a cry, though he still could not open his eyes.

"He needs to be treated – now!" Frodo recognized the firm voice as that of the man who had carried him. "He's borne the arrow for two days! He --"

"I will ask you kindly to lower your voice," the healer said in a rough whisper. "I am sorry, but there are many in need of immediate treatment tonight. Now put him down and wait in the other room. You can't be in here contaminating this room with extra filth from the wild!"

"I will not leave until I see someone helping him." Frodo perceived a stern, nearly regal quality to his voice.

"Let us go," the man, the first man's brother, who had actually fired the shot that hit Frodo said. "They will treat him. They can see how grave is his injury."

Frodo did not want to be left alone, but he was too weak to protest. His heart ached to hear the retreating footsteps.

It seemed only a moment later, he heard the healer speaking to another, he assumed his assistant.

"This hobbit is gravely injured. I am going to need to cut into him to remove the arrow, and even so, he will almost surely die. If he wakes, give him a full cup of this brew. I'm giving him a much stronger dose than I would normally give a hobbit and with that comes some risk of its own, but as he'll almost surely die, I want to try to keep him comfortable. As for the hobbit caught in the street brawl with the head injury, he also will surely die." He let out a pained sigh. "This is a grievous night. They are resilient folk, hobbits, and we don't often lose them."

***

Faramir had not intended to fall asleep, but as soon as he sat on the hard wood bench propped against the wall, he slipped into a black sleep. He jerked awake at the sound of the heavy footsteps of the healer. Beside him, Boromir was asleep against the wall.

"Excuse me --" Faramir said, standing to block the healer.

"Yes?" The healer said, his eyes bleary. He looked as if he had gotten less sleep than Faramir and Boromir. He seemed barely able to focus on anything.

"The halfling…how is he?"

The healer's chin shook. "He's dead. I'm sorry." He pushed past Faramir, as if in a daze.

Faramir stared after him, feeling numb, unable to react. He had known this to be a likely outcome, but the reality of it clenched his throat and sent a cold, heavy weight into his stomach. He stared down at his sleeping brother, trying to gain the strength to wake him.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Faramir shook himself out of his icy shock. No…not shock. It had been a miracle the halfling had survived as long as he had with such a grievous wound. But Faramir had mistakenly taken it as a good omen that they had made it to Bree with Frodo still alive. His limbs trembled, but he felt detached, as if were watching himself from afar. He broke out of his paralysis. The healer was still in sight…had just reached the end of the corridor.

"Healer!" Faramir shouted hoarsely, running after him. "Healer!"

The weary older man turned to face Faramir, his hand still on the knob of the door at the end of the corridor, his bloodshot eyes barely open. "What is it?"

"The halfling…" Faramir's voice cracked, and he bit the insides of his cheeks, striving desperately to keep his impending tears in check. He hadn't openly cried since he was a lad of nine or ten summers and the only time he had seen Boromir cry was when their mother died. "I wish to see him."

"Sir, your hobbit friend is dead, and when anyone, Man or hobbit, in Bree dies under such violent circumstances, I am only allowed by law to release him to his family…" He smiled grimly. "And I can safely say that you're not family."

Faramir shook his head, unable to believe what he had just heard. He had left the frightened, hurt halfling under the care of these healers, who had allowed him to die alone, with no familiar faces surrounding him. Now this same healer would deny Faramir a moment alone with him?

"But his family's in the Shire, and it will be days before they can come." Faramir's voice cracked as he pleaded. "He's alone in there…didn't want to come here…Please allow me to sit beside him…give me just a moment…it's the least I can do." A cold, iron ball filled his stomach. His breath caught as he freshly grasped that the charming dark-haired halfling would never again open his elven blue eyes, would never again laugh or read a book. "Please allow me to bid him farewell. He is my friend."

The healer shook his head firmly. "I cannot. But if you'd truly like to help him, send a message to his family to fetch him. Go to the Prancing Pony. Old Butterbur there will know of a hobbit willing to go to the Shire this morning. When his family arrives, they can grant you permission to see him. Believe me, he's not going anywhere and he isn't going to know whether or not you're sitting beside him. As for me, I am weary beyond measure and I still have others to treat, other men and hobbits, several more of whom may die before the night's finished." He shook his head and a bitter frown took his features. "Damn those savage ruffians…stirring up this kind of bad trouble in our village and hurting innocents. I am sorry about your friend, but you must excuse me now, sir."

Before Faramir could say anything more, the healer went through the door, gently letting it close on Faramir's face. Faramir stood for several black moments, his throat strangled with fresh grief, his jaw stiff. His grief did not stem from guilt alone. Faramir was an excellent judge of men…or hobbits in this case, always had been, and in the short time he had spent with Frodo, he had come to recognize in him a kindred spirit. Faramir had enjoyed few close friends in his life, due to his position in life. Being a son of the Steward, even the less favored son, did not lend many opportunities to meet a variety of people. If he had met Frodo under different circumstances, he was certain that they would have forged a deep friendship. He closed his eyes, bitterly regretting the events that had led to Frodo's death. If only Frodo had chosen a different route for his walk…if only Faramir and Boromir had not wandered into the Shire…if only Faramir had grabbed Boromir's arm before he had shot the arrow…

Faramir walked with heavy steps to where his brother was still soundly sleeping. He paused, reluctant to give him the news. This would be a sore blow for him. Faramir shook him awake. "Boromir."

Boromir's eyes opened, and he looked wildly around his surroundings, trying to orient himself. Finally he looked questioningly at his brother. "What is it?"

"We must go."

"But the halfling?…"

"He did not survive."

Boromir's face crumpled, and he held his hands over his face. "Oh, no. Oh, no." He looked up, his face pale and haggard. "But…we…we brought him…he was alive."

"We did all we could," Faramir said through clenched teeth, placing his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "We did all we could to save him."

Faramir was shocked to see Boromir weeping. "I shall never…never shoot again unless an orc stands right before me. I'd do anything to have that moment to relive again."

Faramir spoke in a soft voice, trying to keep it steady for his brother's benefit. "Now we must go to the local inn and send a message to the Shire, to Bilbo Baggins."

Boromir stood, and Faramir had never seen his face so pale. "Where is Frodo? I wish to see him."

"The healer will only allow his family to see him. It is a law in Bree."

Boromir flushed, and Faramir saw the stubborn warrior coming back. "They will allow the son of Gondor in."

"No, Boromir," Faramir said softly. "Let us not be careless. It breaks me, as well, inside that I can't bid him farewell—"

Boromir turned to his brother, his voice suddenly harsh. "You know nothing of what I will have to live with the rest of my life…It is I who shot him…I killed him…it's like killing an innocent child…I must see him…at least he is in peace…no longer in pain…" Boromir turned away, and Faramir knew his brother would rather wish himself dead than show weakness, even in front of his own brother.

"Come, Boromir," Faramir said softly. "We must quickly send a message to Bilbo, to at least spare him the pain of uncertainty. After that, there is little point to us remaining."

***

 

Dear Bilbo Baggins:

It is with great regret and sorrow that we bring tidings of the death of Frodo Baggins.

We traveled far from the city of Minas Tirith. While in your country, regretfully, my brother mistook Frodo for a deer and shot him, injuring him gravely. We did all we could to spare him pain and we brought him swiftly to Bree to a healer. The healer tried to save him, but his injury was too grave.

In the short time I spent with Frodo, he touched my heart deeply, and I shall never forget him. Having to be the bearer of such news grieves me more than I can express. My brother and I cannot express our remorse and shame enough. Perhaps if you saw with your own eyes the weeping of two warrior men, you might believe us.

While we not know too much about the ways of hobbits, we wish to send you a generous gift when we reach our home. It is not our intention to insult you or to add salt to the wound. We are all too aware that there is nothing we can do to bring Frodo back.

Again, we express all of our sorrow and regret.

Faramir

 

***

Bilbo had not slept in days. The sun rose every day, bringing with it the continuation of the nightmare. Gandalf had combed much of the Shire, following his intuition in seeking signs of where the young hobbit could have gone. Almost every evening he reported back with no news. While Gandalf was gone, Bilbo had gone from neighbor to neighbor. He had sent one of the Gamgee lads to Buckland to inquire whether Frodo had decided to spend time with his cousins, though Bilbo had no hope in that. Frodo was far too considerate to disappear without leaving word.

That evening, Gandalf came back after a day's search, his face grave. "I want you to sit down, Bilbo. I've found something quite disturbing."

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, rubbing his hands together but not sitting down. A loud buzzing had filled his ears. "Is it Frodo?"

"Perhaps." Gandalf gently pushed Bilbo's shoulders, forcing him to sit down. Bilbo looked up at the wizard, shaking so badly he thought he might vomit. "I have found his pack and a book…" Bilbo started to grab it, but Gandalf held it out of reach, staring at Bilbo with his eyebrows bent in warning. "One moment! You should know first that there is blood on the book…quite a bit of it."

Bilbo cried out in hoarse grief as Gandalf allowed him to hold the book that Frodo had taken with him that morning. The old hobbit began to weep, covering his eyes. The tears slipped through his fingers and landed on the book, wetting the dried blood on the cover. Bilbo absentmindedly rubbed his finger over the blood…Frodo's blood. The thought took his breath away, causing his heart to hammer in cold fear.

He looked up. "He's injured somewhere, Gandalf, and I'm not there to take care of him. This is the worst news possible! I must do something…but what?"

"Not necessarily the worst," Gandalf said, staring thoughtfully out the round window. "Frodo was not there, which means that he may have injured himself but was able to find help. He may be at a nearby home or village, perhaps unconscious and unable to send word to you."

"Gandalf, do you think he's alive? Is there hope?"

"Yes," Gandalf nodded and managed a smile at Bilbo. "Yes, there is always hope."

***

Breathing took more effort than ever before. There was pressure on his chest and stomach, and he could barely open his eyes. He had lost track of the time since he had been placed on the bed in Bree's only healing house. Through half opened eyes, he saw the blurry visage of two concerned faces, one older and one younger, and felt their nimble fingers tugging, cutting at his already raw, burning stomach. He groaned, but when he tried to shift position, he found that he was too weak.

"…give him more…he's waking…"

"…will kill him…"

"He's still…miracle…bleeding, though, or he will…"

"…other hobbit…sad way to die."

"…listen carefully…you to give…hold him…the bleeding will be heavy."

"Bilbo!" Frodo cried. A flare of new pain streaked across his stomach, rendering him breathless. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"He's certainly waking…" The voices were clear now. "…hold his shoulders, make certain he does not move."

"Where…" Frodo began. "Where are the men…" He could finally open his eyes all the way. He was first aware that the arrow no longer protruded from his stomach, though there was blood everywhere, soaked onto several towels, his white shirt, the sheets in which he lay. He was so weak that he could not move without bringing a shocking wave of dizziness over him. All that blood…all his, when it did not seem he could spare any of it. "Men…they…brought me here…said they'd take me…home…"

The older man blanched, nearly dropping the fresh towels he had brought to press over Frodo's wound. He turned to his younger assistant. "Oh, no," he whispered and closed his eyes. "I've made a dreadful mistake. How could I have…How could I have forgotten that those men carried this hobbit in, not poor little Sam Thornapple?" The older healer shook his head. "Everything's been such a blur." He opened his eyes slowly before turning to his assistant again. "Run quickly and see if you can find those two young men still! I wish I could spare you to run to old Butterbur's, but I can't…we've too much to take care of here still…well, even if a message gets sent to this fellow's relatives by accident, we'll soon straighten it out, and at least they'll be given a pleasant surprise instead of the other way around."

"Where are the men?" Frodo asked. "Did they leave me?"

"Don't you fret," the healer said. "This is all my fault. Mr. Thornapple'd just died and I was taking it hard…I find it very difficult to lose a hobbit…you fellows are so merry and peaceful…anyway, I'd forgotten who brought in whom, and I told those men you were dead."

"Told them…you told them I was dead?"

"Now, don't strain yourself, little one. You're not out of danger yourself. I just got that arrow out of you and you're…oh, look at you. Blood's soaked through this whole towel."

A wave of dizziness hit Frodo, and he closed his eyes. He was too weak to fully contemplate how bad the grave young man must feel thinking the hobbit he had carried for almost two days and had tried so valiantly to save had not survived. So much talking and questioning had exhausted him, and the pain inched over his abdomen, throbbing and pinching, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. Each time he took in a breath, he felt blood seep into the towels covering his wound. At least the arrow was out. He longed for Bilbo. He was tired of seeing so many humans towering over him, with their booming voices and clumsy, loud feet. He would give anything to hear the barely discernible padding of Bilbo's feet and his soothing voice.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

In his dream, Bilbo was trying to study, but Frodo kept sneaking behind him and poking his fingers into his sides, startling him. The first two times, he had chuckled with Frodo, still enamored of the lad's sweet laugh, but now Bilbo was beginning to get irritated.

"Find something to do, lad," Bilbo said, pushing him away.

"Come, Uncle Bilbo. It's a beautiful day outside. You should not be wasting it studying! Let's go for a walk."

Bilbo turned to face his young cousin and when he did, he blanched. Blood covered Frodo's weskit and white linen shirt. Frodo did not seem to notice, did not seem to be in pain, as his eyes were bright and cheerful, as if he had not a care in the world.

A sharp knocking woke Bilbo out of his increasingly disturbing dream, and his own real nightmare flooded over him as a fresh aching in his chest.

The sun had risen again. He had a vague memory of collapsing in Gandalf's arms, but beyond that, he remembered very little. He knew he had wept forever while Gandalf had rubbed his back and handed him handkerchiefs.

Gandalf answered the door, and Bilbo followed him on shaking legs.

"I have an urgent message for a Mr. Bilbo Baggins from Bree. I got here as fast as I could."

With trembling hands, Bilbo grabbed the letter from the hobbit messenger and ripped it open, barely able to breathe.

A buzzing filled his ears as he read it. It had to be a mistake, a prank. His face numbed and the buzzing grew louder.

"What is it?" Gandalf asked quietly, but Bilbo could not speak. He read the letter again, trying to find meaning in the merciless message written in slanting well-crafted penmanship.

"No…no," he groaned, clutching his chest. This had to be a cruel joke. Some of his unfriendly relations thought it might be fun to shake up the cracked, rich hobbit. That had to be the explanation…because Frodo could not be dead in truth. It just wasn't possible that he would never again see sweet, dear Frodo who had brought him nothing but joy since the day Bilbo had rescued him from neglect at Brandy Hall.

"Please, no…" He dropped the letter and staggered into a wall. Gandalf picked up the letter, supporting Bilbo with his free hand. He set the old hobbit down before reading the letter himself.

"Oh…oh,no…Faramir..."

"He's dead," Bilbo moaned, hearing the agony of finality in his own voice. "My lovely boy is dead." Bilbo's head dropped into his hands. With chest-aching devastation, he realized that when he had seen Frodo in his dream, it had been the last time he would hear the lad laugh.

"This is…" Gandalf mumbled. "I have lived a long time, Bilbo…known and lost many…but Frodo…he's very dear." Gandalf collapsed beside the elderly hobbit and held him. "It is strange, Bilbo. I never sensed the song inside him was fleeting. I thought there was something more…Bilbo, we must go to Bree. We must go to him."

Bilbo collapsed into Gandalf, his body wracked with sobs that finally came. "Yes…he's very lonely, Gandalf, there in that strange village surrounded by Big People and rough hobbits."

"Dear Bilbo, we shall get to the bottom of this. You shall ride with me on my horse and we'll be there in less than two days."

 

***

Every time Frodo breathed, the fiery haze of pain spread from a single point in his abdomen up his arms, down his legs, even over his brow. He was thirsty, so thirsty that his tongue felt dry and fuzzy. Nobody seemed to care much. Occasionally the healer or his assistant would come in to change his dressing, but neither spoke much to him, other than to give him an encouraging smile or pat his shoulder. Whenever he tried to ask for water, the healer left before he could get out the words.

"Can you send a message home?" Frodo finally said in a barely audible croak. "I'm afraid Bilbo's awfully worried about me."

"Hold on, little one," the older healer said. "We're very busy tonight. That brawl took a toll on this village. Perhaps in a bit I can send someone to the inn."

"May I please—"

A sudden ruckus in the next room startled them both.

"You'll let me out of here!" a man shouted in a harsh voice. "I won't be going to no slime pit jail…I'll tear this place apart first!"

The healer's lips formed a grim line and he abruptly left Frodo's room, slamming the door behind him.

"You'll do no such thing!" Frodo cringed when he heard the normally gentle healer yell with such force. "If you touch a hair of my place, I'll make certain you pay, and there won't be nobody to fix you up afterwards!"

The man with the rough voice broke into guttural cursing. Frodo buried himself inside his blanket. He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering what he would do if the enraged man burst into his room. He whimpered quietly, and each whimper brought fresh pain to his wound. He wanted Bilbo. He never wanted to see the outside world again. He only wished that the kind men who had carried him here had not left. He would feel safe if the one with the kind voice who had carried him for so long were sitting next to him, holding his hand through the pain.

A scuffle outside Frodo's door caused the hobbit to gasp in terror, and the healer shouted, "Lock him up…get him out of here!"

Rough calls and curses followed. Swords were drawn, followed by more harsh cursing. Frodo covered his ears, buried deep under his covers.

"Get in there!" The healer shouted again, very close now. "You shouldn't have come."

The door to Frodo's room was ripped open, and Frodo cringed, lying in paralyzed terror, his heart thumping so hard that he thought he might faint, even lying down. A weight sank on his bed, causing pain to rip over his abdomen, and he cried out.

"Oh, no!…" A voice shouted. "I'm sorry…I didn't know anyone was here!"

Frodo peered over his blanket, eyes wide with curiosity. Leaning against the wall in delayed shock was a boy. His voice had not fully changed over, but he was big, nearly as tall as the healer's assistant. Frodo did not know how to estimate the ages of Men, but he would guess that he was a youth.

"A hobbit?" the boy asked in surprise.

Frodo nodded, too terrified to speak.

"I'm sorry I nearly sat on you," the boy said. "Were you frightened of the fight out there?"

Frodo was determined not to weep when he heard the genuine sympathy in the boy's voice, especially because he was quite certain the boy was younger than he. "What happened?" he finally asked.

The boy's eyes were bright with excitement. "One of those nasty men that started that brawl yesterday tried to rob the dead. My father…he's the healer…he just shouted to have them arrested. Of course that ruffian had other ideas…" The boy whistled and shook his head. "I'm probably in big trouble now, for coming in the middle of all that." He looked at Frodo in sudden curiosity. "I can never tell with hobbits, but you look young. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"Oh," the boy said. "Only ten years older than me. I'm fifteen. What happened to you?"

Frodo took in a breath. His heart felt lighter as he talked to the sympathetic boy. "I was walking in the Shire and a man accidentally shot me with his arrow. He and his brother took me here, but…" Frodo's throat filled and he struggled to keep his voice steady. "Well, your father was very tired last night…and he told them I was dead, and they left, so now--"

"You're all alone here, in a strange place," the boy finished, his eyes filled with compassion. "And you're from the Shire and all…"

Frodo nodded, clenching his jaw in an effort to keep from weeping. "I don't know if my Uncle Bilbo will ever find out where I am…and nobody has time to send a message to him."

"Hey, don't worry," the boy said. "I'll send a message for you."

Frodo smiled for the first time, through watery eyes. "Would you? You are very kind. What's your name?"

"Sammy."

"Sammy," Frodo said. "I like that name. The son of our gardener's name is Sam, too." He smiled again at Sammy. "Thanks so much for coming to talk to me. You've made me feel better. But if you could…I'm very thirsty. May I have some water please?"

Sammy brought him a cup of water that had been sitting on the table. "This was probably meant for you, but my father's been so busy…" He gently put his arm behind Frodo's neck and lifted his head just enough so that he could place the cup to Frodo's cracked lips. The water tasted wonderful, and Frodo gulped it until it was gone.

"Better?" Sammy asked, and Frodo nodded gratefully.

The older healer came in, again letting the door slam behind him. He glared at his son, hands on his hips. "What's the meaning of putting yourself in danger and bothering my patients? You know we've had trouble! I want you home now -- and do as your mother asks, you hear?"

"No, please." Frodo swallowed, somewhat intimidated by the scowl on the healer's face. "Sammy's made me feel much better. I would like it if he could stay…that is, if he can…at least for a little while."

The healer sighed and spoke softly to his son. "This little hobbit shouldn't even be alive with the injury he was brought in with. Not only did he have an arrow stuck in his belly for two or three days, but it had poison on it…though…I actually think the poison's what saved him. It slowed his body so much that he couldn't bleed to death."

"Oh," Sammy sighed, looking at Frodo with new respect. "May I please stay with him awhile, father?"

The healer sighed and nodded. "I am only worried about you, son, with all the trouble lately…" He sighed again. "But the hobbit is lonely and frightened and I have little time to ease him. What you can do is brew the tea, just like you've done with other patients. Now remember…don't give Frodo the same dose as you would a man…give him a little less than half, like you would a small child of our kind."

"I know, I know," Sammy interrupted impatiently, winking at Frodo.

Frodo smiled back at him, relieved that Sammy would stay with him, at least for awhile. He was not sure how he would face another night alone and in pain, but he would reach that moment when it arrived.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Neither Faramir nor Boromir had mentioned Frodo since leaving Bree. They spoke only when necessary, in stiff and courteous sentences. The cold iron ball in Faramir's chest was minor, he knew, compared to what his brother must be suffering. He longed to discuss what had happened, to bring it into the open, but he could not bridge the miserable gap that had developed between him and his brother.

Three days out of Bree, they had set up camp in a small meadow, on the edge of a dense wood. A light mist dampened their clothing and made a fire difficult to maintain. Boromir sat on a rotting log and stared into the growing darkness in morose silence. The time had come, Faramir thought to himself, fidgeting with the hilt of his sword. If they did not discuss this now, he was afraid Boromir would develop a warrior's hardened skin over the pain…and it would later be impossible to extract. Faramir set his hand on his brother's tense shoulder. "I understand how poorly you must feel." His voice sounded foreign after days of near silence.

"I do not wish to speak of it."

"You must," Faramir said. "This silence is not…healthy."

Boromir glanced toward the horses. "Shall we continue on?"

"No." Faramir sat on the log beside Boromir. "It grows dark…and I will not travel another league until you speak what is in your heart."

Boromir's eyes hardened. "I have no heart. That you surely must know by now."

"That is curious," Faramir said, keeping his voice even. "If you had no heart, I do not imagine you would feel so wretched. You might have shouted in joy when your arrow struck its mark."

"Do not jest!" Boromir cried out hoarsely. "You cannot imagine…I dream about him every night. I see those pained, blue eyes staring at me in reproach and I cannot bear it. Faramir, we have both seen death before, but I have never taken a life, save the worthless lives of orcs." Tears trickled from his eyes, and Faramir marveled that it was the second time in less than a week that his sturdy warrior brother had wept before him. "I think about the halfling that we wrote the letter to…and how he will feel…I've ruined his life." He sighed and covered his face with his hands. "Now I understand how Hoalin the guard felt."

"Hoalin?" The name sounded familiar, but Faramir could not conjure the face from his memory.

"Ten years ago, he shot a youth by mistake…through the throat. The youth had run toward him and he mistook him for an enemy…Haolin never forgave himself…and Father had to remove him from the guard. He cleans streets now, unable to bear a bow. And this…I fear I will face a similar fate."

Faramir sighed and clasped his knees. Boromir needed closure, or this would fester deep inside him. After several moments of silence, Faramir spoke again. "Might it ease your heart if we returned to Bree and talked to his family?"

"Why?" Boromir said bitterly. "What possible good would it do? So I may see with my own eyes the grief I have caused?"

"We could offer our apology in person," Faramir said.

"Why would the halfling's uncle still be in Bree? He has probably gone back to his home."

Faramir nodded. "Then we could follow him…back into the Shire." He squeezed Boromir's shoulder. "Because I fear you are right. If we go home in the state you are in now, I do not think you shall forgive yourself. Perhaps even laying your eyes one more time on Frodo would give you more closure."

Boromir nodded, swallowing. "I do not think anything will help me, but perhaps allowing Bilbo to see the murderer will ease his heart. I can do that much at least."

***

For Bilbo, the trip to Bree passed in a dazed blur. After the initial wave of cruel shock had passed, Bilbo sagged against Gandalf on the horse and wept like a baby. He wept until he didn't think there could possibly be enough tears inside him to sustain his misery. There was so much he could have done differently during the short time Frodo had lived in Bag End. He should have paid closer attention to him…gone on more walks…not acted irritated when the lad had disturbed his studies. He should have cherished every smile, every laugh, every curious question. Now he saw the rest of his own life spread before him, gray and joyless, like the slate gray skies of winter.

"What makes this more heartrending," Gandalf murmured in Bilbo's ear. "Is that I know well the Men who have done this…and they are noble, gentle Men…in particular, Faramir, the Steward's youngest son. Boromir is more willful, but Faramir…you would like him, Bilbo. He has many interests parallel to yours -- history and elven tales, to name a few."

"What were they thinking…" Bilbo said, his chest so tight and painful that it felt it must crack open. "Shooting arrows in the Shire?"

"I do not know," Gandalf said. "But Faramir is much like Frodo in many regards…and I imagine he will live with this forever."

Bilbo tensed, and his words were fast and full of rage. "I do not mean disrespect, Gandalf, but I do not care about the feelings of the lads who did this. My Frodo is gone because of their carelessness!" He furiously wiped tears from his cheeks. "Do not expect me to feel sorrow for them…I am sorry if it sounds cold, but I hope they suffer the rest of their lives…because I know I will. I only curse that Bagginses are so long lived." He breathed in rapid gasps, unsuccessfully trying not to weep again. "Frodo is a Baggins, but he is not long lived. He never…" Bilbo could no longer control the new tears that came. "…Never even had his Coming of Age party…I would have given him…I…wish…I wish I were dead, Gandalf! I wish it had been me that took the arrow instead of Frodo."

Gandalf's free arm wrapped around Bilbo. "Do not say such things, Bilbo. Frodo would not have wished it. Let us not be hasty until we know exactly what has happened."

Bilbo took a long, shuddering breath. "I've never had many friends, Gandalf. Hobbits have large families, but Drogo is the only relative I've only been close to. After he died, Frodo charmed his way into my heart. And now…I have nothing, Gandalf. Nothing."

Gandalf said no more as he rubbed Bilbo's shoulders the best he could while guiding his horse. Bilbo soon fell into a miserable doze.

***

"All right," Sammy said to Frodo, eagerly leaning forward on the stool next to Frodo's bed. "It's my turn. Start asking me questions!"

Frodo smiled at the youth. The pain had eased considerably since the day before, though his abdomen felt stiff. If he kept perfectly still, he was all right, but if he moved even an inch, his wound flared with fresh agony. "All right. Are you an animal?"

"No."

"Are you a person?"

"No."

"Are you a plant?"

Sammy grinned and leaned his forearms on his knees. "Yes."

"Flower?"

Sammy made a face. "Ick. No."

"A tree?"

"No."

"Are you edible?"

"Very much so."

"Are you a potato?"

"No." Sammy grinned devilishly. "Come on, Frodo, don't be dense!"

"Are you…" Frodo caught the sparkle in Sammy's eye. "Oh, I know now! A mushroom!"

Sammy nodded eagerly. "You're slow, Frodo. It took you 8 questions. I still have you beat. And I tried to pick an easy one for you since I know hobbits love mushrooms!"

"Indeed we do," Frodo said. "I should be ashamed I did not guess it immediately!"

Sammy's father entered the room carrying a steaming pot of water. "How are you feeling, Frodo?"

"It hurts when I move, but other than that…much better."

The healer set the pot on the table next to Frodo's bed. "It looks as though the brew we've been giving you is helping with the pain. My boy's not keeping you from rest, is he?"

"Oh, no!" Frodo winked at Sammy. "Not at all! I very much enjoy his company."

The healer lifted Frodo's nightshirt and unwrapped the old dressing. "I…my boy here told my wife all about you. She sees you two as being around the same age, and it saddened her, you being here in Bree all alone with such a grave injury…she's taken you to her heart. She washed your clothing until she got out all the blood, so that you'll have clean clothes when you're ready to go. And, of course, when you are recovered, you are welcome to our house for dinner before you go home. My wife makes wonderful mushroom pies."

Frodo's eyes sparkled and he smiled again. "Thank you so very much! You must thank her for me."

"I think you'll get a chance yourself," Sammy said. "I'll be sad when you have to go back to the Shire, though."

"She likes hobbits," the healer added, dipping a cloth in the steaming water and wringing it out. "We have a young hobbit lad, probably your age, who helps with chores around our house. Sweet fellow, good worker…as long as he's not tempted by food."

Frodo's heart sank as he thought about Sam Gamgee and Bag End…and Bilbo.

"Do you suppose my message has reached home yet?" Frodo asked Sammy.

"I only sent it yesterday, and old Butterbur couldn't guarantee he'd find someone to go to the Shire. But don't worry, Frodo. It'll get there. But even if he got here right now, you can't travel just yet anyway, right papa?"

The healer gave Sammy a stern look. "No, Frodo will not be out of bed for another few days to a week. All the same, I think he is very lonely for one of his own folk and we should not begrudge him that."

"Oh, no," Sammy said, flushing. "I did not mean—"

"It is all right," Frodo said, cringing as the healer started to wash his wound. "I know…I know what…you…mean." He bit into the sleeve of his nightshirt to muffle a cry of pain. He did not want to lose control in front of Sammy.

Luckily, the healer pulled the cloth back. "I am sorry…know that hurts, but we can't have it getting infected. You've been lucky so far." He felt Frodo's brow and frowned. "You have a slight fever. Sammy, my boy, please brew the fever tonic for me."

Frodo winced, and Sammy laughed. "I know. It's vile stuff, isn't it? Ma always gives it to me when I'm ill."

The healer examined the wound, trying not to touch it. "It's closing up nicely. There's heavy bruising around the wound from the inside bleeding." He looked at Frodo. "I bet the man who did this feels right awful about the poison on his arrows, but I do believe it saved your life. If that poison hadn't slowed you down inside, you would have bled to death within a few hours…and those fellows wouldn't have even made it to Bree with you."

The healer wrapped fresh dressing over the wound and taped it down, and soon, the pinching and burning dulled to a slight throb.

"I wish there was a way to let them know I'm alive," Frodo said. "But I suppose they're long on their way to their city."

"We could send a message to Minas Tirith," Sammy said hopefully.

Frodo smiled sadly. "I do not even know their names."

All the same, his heart lifted. Sammy had sent the message to the Shire, and it would only be a matter of time before Bilbo came for him. Meanwhile, the healer was kind…and Frodo had made a friend in Sammy, who saved him from dwelling on the pain and loneliness. The village of Bree bustled with exciting activity, and he hoped that when he recovered he could explore a little before returning with Bilbo to his quiet life in the Shire.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Bilbo opened blurry eyes as they passed through the gate to the village of Bree. He had been dozing again, his body weary from the hours of useless weeping. Gandalf's arm was firmly around him.

"Have we reached…?" he asked dully. He had no strength, could not imagine how he would get off the horse and…do what he had to do.

"Yes."

"Do you know…" Bilbo said. "Do you know where his…" He simply could not bear to refer to Frodo as a body. "…where he would…be?" Just the question left him breathless.

What he was about to face -- Frodo, his dark curls surrounding his still and pale face, his merry blue eyes closed forever -- brought fresh tears to Bilbo's eyes. He had thought he was utterly spent of tears, that there could surely be none left. His chest ached from weeping.

Gandalf spoke in a low, soothing voice. "We will go to the healer, a good Man by the name of Mr. Rushlight and I am certain he will help us."

In front of the healer's cottage, Gandalf climbed off his horse and helped Bilbo down. Bilbo's legs nearly gave out, and he clutched Gandalf's arm for support. He straightened up, forcing himself to stand. He had to be strong now. For too many days, Frodo had been cold and lonely with nobody to hold his hand or tell him stories.

Once inside the cottage, Gandalf beckoned to a gruff man who was resting on a stool, head held in his hands.

"Gandalf!" The man jumped up. "What brings you to Bree?"

"It's you I came to see," Gandalf said.

"Me?" the healer asked, looking somewhat nervous. "Whatever can I help you with? I'm a little short of herbs, don't have many to spare --"

"I've a hobbit here from the Shire by the name of Bilbo Baggins—"

The healer gasped, his eyes widening in delight. "Bilbo Baggins!…My, this is good news! Frodo's been waiting for you! My, that message must have come to you fast! I'll prepare him."

Gandalf's mouth parted slightly.

"What's the meaning of this?" Bilbo said, his eyes widening with rage. "Show some respect at the very least. To you, Frodo might be nothing more than a little hobbit barely worth your attention, but he was everything to me."

The healer looked at Bilbo, puzzled. "Good sir…I didn't mean —"

Gandalf stepped to the healer, a stern look on his face. "Do you have the…is Frodo here?"

"Of course he is," the healer said, his voice trembling, clearly shaken by the behavior of the wizard and elderly hobbit. "He's still bedridden, but he'll be on his feet in no time. He's an otherwise healthy young hobbit—"

Bilbo reeled, clutching his chest. What the healer was saying…bedridden…On his feet soon…healthy? "What…what? How can--" Everything was turning fuzzy gray.

"I can see you can't wait," the healer said. "Follow me. He's been so eager for you, Bilbo. Speaks constantly of you."

"He's not…?" Bilbo said in a gasp. The gray haze darkened his vision until he could barely breathe. Gandalf stared at the healer in shock.

"We were informed Frodo was dead," he said quietly.

"Dead? Oh…oh, dear, no!" The healer covered his forehead with his hand. "What a shame that you received that message! Those men that brought him must have sent word to you…what a mess this has been. We've had a terrible misunderstanding. No wonder you spoke so to me."

"Frodo was not slain by an arrow?" Gandalf persisted.

"No, no," the healer said. "This is all my fault…That night I was exhausted beyond belief…there had been a terrible brawl in the street, many injured and a few killed, and we had just lost Sam Appledore, bless him, and…I mixed up the hobbits in my mind and told the men who brought your Frodo to us that he was dead. Then I could not find them afterwards."

"Oh, my." Gandalf said. His eyes were bright, and his lips twitched with joy.

"Frodo," Bilbo gasped, holding his chest. "…alive?"

"Bilbo," Gandalf said. "Sit down." The wizard helped Bilbo to sit on a stool, gently pushing the hobbit's head between his knees. Bilbo willed himself not to faint, taking in deep breaths over and over. He couldn't lose consciousness, not when he had just heard the best news of his life. How many people were lucky enough to be told horrible news and then find out later it had been a mistake?

He had been blessed. So blessed.

"I must see him," Bilbo gasped, springing to his feet. "I am all right, Gandalf. I must see him!"

"Follow me," the healer said with a broad smile. "I am so happy to have this cleared up for you. Frodo will be overjoyed. I can't tell you how fond I've become of him."

Bilbo followed the healer down the corridor in a drugged daze, unable to believe that he was about to look upon an alive Frodo.

The healer opened the door. "Shh," he said, lifting his finger to his mouth. "He is sleeping."

Bilbo muffled his longing to cry out in strangled joy when he saw Frodo.

"Frodo, Frodo my lad." Bilbo sank onto a stool beside the bed and clutched Frodo's hand. He turned to the healer, tears in his eyes, and whispered. "Tell me…is he in any pain?"

"He's much better than when they first brought him in. He's in some pain, but it's much improved. My lad Sammy's been keeping him company. He's never had many friends, my Sammy, but he just adores Frodo…he'll be awfully sad to see him go. Your Frodo's a very lucky hobbit, Mr. Baggins. He shouldn't have survived such an arrow wound to his belly."

"Oh, Frodo," Bilbo said, rubbing warmth into his nephew's hand. He didn't care how close it had been because he already knew how it felt to lose Frodo. But now he was back, and nothing else mattered.

Frodo's eyes fluttered open. He looked confused, but after a moment of first looking upon Gandalf and then Bilbo, a big smile brightened his pale face.

"Bilbo!" he cried. Bilbo hugged him tightly, sobbing into Frodo's nightshirt, careful not to bump his wound.

"I'm so sorry," Frodo said. "I wandered too far…"

"Not your fault," Bilbo said. "Never. I'm only so glad you're alive…"

"I thought I'd never see you again," Frodo said, choking back a sob. "Oh, Bilbo, you came. You really came!"

Bilbo pulled back, still holding Frodo's shoulders. "How do you feel, Frodo? Are you in pain?"

"I'm much, much better," Frodo said. "It hurt when it first happened, but -–"

"Confound those men!" Bilbo said, curling his hands into fists. "If I ever get a chance to have words with them…"

"Oh, no, Uncle, they were kind to me. It was truly an accident."

Sammy burst in the room. "I just heard your folks came, Frodo! You're not going home now, are you?"

"No," the healer said. "You don't need to interrupt like that. You know Frodo cannot travel just yet. Bilbo, there is an inn right near—"

"I know -- the Prancing Pony. We will be reserving rooms there." Bilbo's heart felt light, and he knew he would sleep well that night.

"Frodo should not travel for at least two weeks."

***

"Please may I walk outside a bit today?" Frodo asked, turning his shining eyes toward the healer. Sammy was helping his father to stack towels in the corner of the room. "Bilbo's going to buy things in the village to take back to the Shire, and --"

"That's too much for you," the healer said.

"Yes, I know," Frodo said. "I was thinking more that perhaps Sammy might show me around the village."

Sammy nodded eagerly. "I'd love to."

"Oh, you could certainly manage that, I should think," the healer said. "That is, if you don't go too far."

Frodo had walked around the cottage earlier that morning and had felt no pain. His stomach felt stiff and bruised, but the ripping, burning pain from the arrow's intrusion was gone. The healer had felt his brow and there had been no fever.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Sammy said, clapping his hands. "I can't wait to show you my favorite places! Oh, Frodo, I wish you lived in Bree."

Frodo changed into his clothes, and he realized that he was not so steady on his feet yet. He refused to say anything about that to the healer. The weather was beautiful, and the last thing he wanted was to be directed back to bed. If during the walk he started to feel ill, he would simply tell Sammy.

"Ready?" Sammy said eagerly, and Frodo nodded.

"You come back immediately if you feel any pain," the healer said. "Sammy, you hear that?"

"Yes, yes."

Once outside, Frodo tilted his face to the sun, relishing the gentle warmth. Sammy looked down, smiling widely. "I hope you're not offended, but I never realized how small you really are, Frodo. Are you truly as tall as you're going to get?"

"I imagine so," Frodo said, smiling back. "I'm not offended. And you? Are you as tall as you're going to get?"

"Maybe," Sammy said, rubbing his chin. "But my father's pretty tall. I might still have some height left to go."

They walked for quite a long time, and Sammy kept up a steady chatter.

"…and these are the stone houses of the Big Folk, as I know you hobbits like to call us…The gate to our village is closed at nightfall. That gatekeeper can be kind of rude and crotchety, but his bark's worse than his bite. He made me cry when I was a small lad, but not anymore…and see where the inn is?…Right near that is the Greenway, the North Road, but nobody uses it much these days…"

Frodo was beginning to feel so weary that he was not sure how much longer he could walk without assistance. A wave of dizziness made him stagger on his feet, but Sammy did not seem to notice. Frodo was about to speak up and suggest that they go back to the healer's cottage when Sammy whispered, "Oh, no, it's Tommy Goatleaf."

"Are you not friendly with him?" Frodo asked.

"You could say that," Sammy groaned. "Just let's walk by. Try not to look directly at him."

"We should probably just go back, Sammy," Frodo said, but Sammy did not hear him, so intent he was on ignoring Tommy and his friend who were sitting on the broad steps in front of the Prancing Pony. Frodo looked longingly to the inn's front door. Perhaps he should go in and ask if he could rest in Bilbo's room instead of trying to make it back to the healer's cottage.

Tommy and his friend stood when Sammy and Frodo approached. Frodo recognized the predatory look on their faces, as Frodo had often faced bullying by Lotho and his friends in the Shire.

"It's Sammy the frog!" Tommy called out. Frodo wondered how Sammy had come to gain that nickname, but he also knew bullies were often desperate to come up with anything to bait their victims.

"Hush your mouth!" Sammy said. Tommy and his friend surrounded Sammy. Frodo stepped back, starting to feel a little worried about the situation. Perhaps he should try to go inside the inn and call for help.

"I see you have a new friend," Tommy said, suddenly noticing Frodo. "I guess a hobbit's the only thing that'll ever befriend you. Right, ratling?"

Frodo gazed into Tommy's small mean eyes, and his cheeks heated. Ratling? Nobody had ever spoken to him in such a cruel tone.

He took a breath and spoke, despite feeling dizzy and frightened. "Sammy is as kind a friend as I could ask for."

Tommy's friend looked down at Frodo's feet and laughed maliciously. "You are a little rat, aren't ya? -- living in a hole like a rodent with those big, disgusting hairy feet. My dad says you little rats breed out of control and you ought to be caught in traps and fed to orcs."

Sammy shoved him. "Don't talk to Frodo like that! You don't know anything!"

The boy shoved Sammy back, knocking him to the ground.

"No!" Frodo yelled. He was not sure what to do. He felt too sick to run or to come to Sammy's assistance.

Both boys fell on top of Sammy, pummeling him with all their might, and Sammy fought back to the best of his abilities.

"Go, Frodo!" he managed to call out. "Run!"

"No!" Frodo scrambled to the fighting mass and managed to coil his arm around Tommy's thick neck.

"Let go, you little rat, or you'll get hurt!"

Vicious teeth bit into Frodo's arm, forcing him to let go. Tommy flipped over and slammed his fist into Frodo's cheek, knocking the hobbit on his back.

"Frodo!" Sammy cried. "Hey, Tommy, don't hurt him! You can beat me but don't hurt him; he's not recovered—"

Tommy laughed and slapped Frodo's face. Frodo lifted his arm to shield himself, his heart thudding. He didn't know what else to do. He felt helpless and sick, with not even the strength to struggle now. His wound ached fiercely, and the sun, which had seemed so bright and cheerful just a few moments earlier now seemed dim and cold.

"Don't!" Sammy yelled, pushing Tommy's friend off of him in a fury. "He can't fight you back!"

"Hey!" A man stomped out of the inn, glaring down at the fighting boys. "All of you -- get out of here or I'll beat you within an inch of your lives!"

Tommy and his friend jumped to their feet, poised to flee.

"Let the frog and rat alone!" Tommy mocked. A heavy foot slammed into Frodo's stomach before the boys ran off down the street. Frodo was paralyzed with the new agony that ripped through his belly, leaving him breathless. He curled into a ball, clutching his stomach, unable to do anything but gasp and whimper.

"Are you all right?" Sammy asked, his voice cracking. "Frodo! Speak to me!"

Frodo could not answer. A black mist gathered in front of his vision and he clenched his hands into fists, trying to stay conscious. He didn't want Sammy to have to carry him.

"Frodo, I'm so sorry, so sorry, should never have brought you here! Oh, no!" Sammy sounded as though he were sobbing, and through hazy vision, Frodo saw that the boy was bleeding from his nose heavily.

Frodo wanted to tell him that he was all right, but he couldn't speak. The pain crashed over every part of his body like a flooding river, consuming everything, and he knew all that came out of his mouth were pained gagging and whimpers. His stomach contracted, and he threw up.

"I'll carry you," Sammy said, and surprisingly strong arms lifted him.

"Please help us!" Sammy cried to the man who yelled at them. "Please, sir! Those boys waylaid us…my hobbit friend's badly hurt. Will you take us to the healer? He's my father."

Frodo felt a new set of arms lift him before he fell into darkness.

 

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

"You lads shouldn'ta been fighting!" The gruff man who had just moments earlier threatened them with a beating said as he took Frodo from Sammy's arms with surprising gentleness. The man was meaty with a beard, not too tall, and he reeked of ale. "Don't you know there's been enough trouble lately? What ails the halfling? He's not breathing right. Did they knock him out? This is the kind of trouble that comes from ruffian-like fighting!"

Sammy wiped the blood from his nose. "Please…He needs to go right back to the healing cottage. Do you have a horse?"

"No, but I can carry him swifter than you can."

***

"Father! Father!" Sammy yelled, bursting into the healing cottage.

The healer trotted into the entrance hall, his brow creased with concern. "What is it, lad? What has happened to your face--?" He started when he saw the large man behind Sammy carrying Frodo. "Did he collapse?"

"Tommy Goatleaf and his friend attacked us," Sammy said, gasping, wiping his nose again. "He hurt Frodo, kicked him in the belly."

The healer took Frodo from the gruff-looking man, who nodded. "Saw the whole thing. Those lads were fighting and I chased them away. This halfling don't look too good."

"Thank you, sir," Sammy said to the gruff man. "I know I couldn't have got him here this fast."

"Now you just mind your dad and stay out of further trouble. Good luck to your halfling friend. Hope he comes out all right." He shook his head in disgust before exiting the cottage, no doubt headed back to the inn for more ale.

The healer walked briskly with Frodo into the room where the hobbit had been for the past several days and lay him on the bed, unbuttoning his vest and shirt. The skin around the nearly healed wound had turned black again, and he was clearly having difficulty breathing.

"Oh, no," the healer said with a regretful sigh. "You were doing so well, Frodo."

Sammy, pale and shaken, hovered behind his father like a frightened shadow. The healer handed him a cold cloth.

"Here, my boy, hold this over your nose. I need you to run back to the inn and fetch Bilbo – he ought to be back from his excursion by now. Tell him Frodo has fallen gravely ill and he needs to come now. After that, I want you to go on home. There's nothing you can do here."

"Is he…" Sammy found it difficult to take in enough breath as he beheld Frodo's pallid face. "Will he be all right?"

"I don't know, son," the healer said brusquely. "I don't know what you were thinking. I said a short walk would be all right for him, but somehow you led him into a brawl."

Sammy could not help but choke back tears. "I don't want to go home, father," he said. "I know it's my fault he got hurt."

"We will talk about it later," the healer said with an ominous glint in his eyes. "But right now I don't need you under foot, and Frodo is too ill to appreciate your friendship right now. Now go on and fetch Bilbo."

Sammy's throat was full with panic as he sprinted to the inn to fetch the elderly hobbit, holding the cloth to his nose. He had never been good at making friends. The local lads ridiculed him that he cried all the time like a maiden. It was true. He was quick to tears, quick to show emotion, and for that, he had always been teased. The local lads also called him "frog" because when he was eight, he had been trying to impress a group who were teasing him, and he had eaten a baby frog in front of them. Instead of being impressed, the local lads had thought him even odder than before, and they had become even more relentless in their bullying.

Frodo had been the first lad his age to accept him as a friend. Of course, Frodo wasn't accurately his age, but hobbits' ages were different, and though Sammy couldn't remember exactly how, he knew that he and Frodo were of an equivalent age. Sammy tried to control his sniffing. The local lads were right. He did cry all the time. He couldn't help it, especially if he was about to lose the only friend he had been able to make.

Sammy had dreaded the time when Frodo had to return to the Shire, but now he thought, if Frodo recovered, it was better if he went home. If he stayed in Bree, it would be dangerous for him to be friends with Sammy. They would be perpetually hounded by bullies, and most of the horrible lads who teased Sammy thought nothing about beating on folk that couldn't defend themselves. He knew for a fact that Tommy Goatleaf had once knocked an elderly man unconscious just to steal the bread he was carrying.

Yes, Sammy thought with a sad sigh. It was all around better if Frodo returned with Bilbo to the Shire.

***

Every breath was agony.

"No…please don't take me to Bree…I want Bilbo!"

"I'm here, lad," a kindly but sad voice said…so far away. It was probably only a dream. He was being carried through the woods by two strange men who were kind but refused to see that he needed to be at home, with Bilbo.

He sighed in despair. "Bilbo, please, I can't see you."

"Don't try to talk, Frodo, or you'll make the bleeding worse."

"Bleeding?" Frodo cried out in alarm. "Am I bleeding?"

But darkness crashed down on him, swallowing him, engulfing him until he was drowning in pain and dizziness. He was not completely asleep because he could still hear voices in the room.

"…have to do…he will die otherwise…"

"…do not have that kind of healing power," Gandalf's voice was deep with concern. "I can but put him into a painless sleep, but he needs something to stop the bleeding. Allow me to send forth a message to a friend, a ranger of the wild."

"We don't have time!" Bilbo's hoarse voice indicated he had been weeping. "He is dying! Gandalf, do something, anything! I can't lose him again!"

"Bilbo," Frodo tried to say, but he could not form words on his lips.

"Father," Sammy sounded plaintive and sad. Frodo thought the lad probably blamed himself for what happened, and he wanted to tell him he didn't blame him, but he could not find the strength to talk. "How is he?"

"I told you to go home, Sammy!" The healer shouted.

"I want to see him!"

"He's very bad off." Frodo heard a choked sob from Sammy. "Gandalf," the healer continued. "I suggest you send for your friend. It's our only hope."

Frodo felt a rough but gentle hand on his forehead before he slipped into complete darkness that was finally free of pain.

***

Faramir and Boromir passed through the gate to Bree. Faramir's heart was heavy, but he noticed his brother did not look nearly as sullen.

"You were right, Faramir," Boromir said. "I feel the burden ease somewhat. This was the right thing to do."

Faramir's throat caught as two halflings darted across the road. One of them had dark, curly hair, like Frodo. He heard their tenor laughter, and his stomach turned. That was where Frodo should be, laughing with his young friends, not buried under the cold earth. One of the halflings gave the two Men on horses a curious look before being shuttled along by his friend.

"This will not be easy," Faramir said to himself.

They reached the healer's cottage and tied up their horses. Faramir had nearly reached the door, prepared to knock, when the door was pushed open with great force, and Faramir fell back as gray robes brushed by him. Mithrandir!

"Faramir!" The wizard clasped Faramir's arm. "You have come."

"What are you doing here?" Faramir asked, nearly rendered breathless.

"I have no time to discuss it now, but when I return we can talk at length."

"You know what we've done," Faramir said in a small voice.

"Yes, yes, but I must go now or all will be in vain. Frodo is…" The wizard's bright eyes met Faramir's. "Oh, that is right! You thought…He is alive, you know, but in poor shape."

Faramir only heard that Frodo was alive. He closed his eyes as a rushing filled his ears, and he heard his brother breathing quickly beside him.

"Alive?" Boromir asked.

"I am sorry, I must go at once," Mithrandir said, patting Faramir's arm. With barely a nod of farewell, he jumped on his horse and galloped down the street.

Faramir clutched his chest and turned to Boromir. "This is news beyond our imagination."

"How can this be?" Boromir asked, and his eyes, which had been so dull, brightened in wonder. "How can this be? It is a gift to us, for coming back. We must see him at once."

When Faramir and Boromir entered the cottage, they saw a youth of about fourteen or fifteen sitting on a wooden bench, clearly weeping. He wiped his eyes when the two men entered, trying to look as though he were merely tired.

"Greetings," Boromir said, unable to hide his eager smile. "There's an injured halfling here?"

The lad's mouth twisted in grief, and he glared. "Why do you smile? He will likely not live the night."

"We mean no offense," Faramir said, holding his hands out in surrender. He could not help but feel lighthearted when there was still a chance that Frodo could live. "It is only that we had been told that he had died and have just learned that he is alive."

The lad stared at them in disbelief. "Are you the men who shot him?"

"Yes," Boromir said.

The lad let out a shuddering breath. "He will be glad to see you if he lives the night. He was awfully sorry that you left thinking he had died. We joked about sending a message to Minas Tirith, your city. I am Sammy, the healer's son."

"We are pleased to make your acquaintance," Faramir said. "Did you make good company for Frodo while he was alone?"

Sammy nodded miserably. "We became good friends in a short time, and he was healing marvelously. Then I took him around town and we were chased by bullies. They hurt Frodo, right in his wound, and now he's in poor shape, and it's my fault. I shouldn't have…I should have been able to defend him."

"What sort of bully would attack an injured halfling?" Boromir said, shaking his head.

"The sort who've bothered and teased me all my life," Sammy said with a bitter frown. "They think I'm odd, but Frodo doesn't think so."

"You're a good lad, Sammy," Faramir said.

An elderly hobbit walked into the front room, starting when he saw the two Men.

"I did not mean to startle you," Faramir said. "I…my brother and I came…Might you by chance be Bilbo Baggins?"

"Who are you?" The elderly hobbit's eyes were red and bleary, yet filled with sharp suspicion.

Boromir bowed his head. "We've come to see Frodo. I am the one who fired the arrow that injured him." When the older hobbit said nothing, he continued. "We brought him here to Bree. We were told he had died, and we wrote a message to you. After several leagues travel, my brother and I decided to come back, to offer our humble apologies to you. There was no greater joy than when we learned that Frodo is alive."

Bilbo still said nothing, but Faramir saw a chilling transformation come over the hobbit's face. Faramir had expected him to be angry, but he had not expected to feel a cold iron coil in his stomach. So odd that a hobbit, an elderly hobbit that only came up to his midsection, could instill such ominous fear inside him.

 

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

When Bilbo finally spoke, the venom in his voice shocked Faramir into taking a step backward.

"What right did you have to fire arrows at an unarmed hobbit lad in his own country?"

"I assure you, Mr. Baggins," Faramir said as humbly as possible, though he simply could not stifle the singing in his heart that had begun when he found out that Frodo was alive. "It was an unfortunate accident. My brother--"

"If it was your brother who shot the arrow, let him speak."

"I mistook the halfling for a deer—" Boromir began.

"Do you have fleas in your eyes, young master? How can you mistake a hobbit for a deer?" Bilbo's eyes flashed, and he snorted scornfully. "Never mind. Such a foolish question to ask reckless lads."

"Good sir," Faramir said, holding out his palms in surrender. He wondered what his father would think, his two noble sons pleading before an old halfling of the rustic North. "We only wish to pay Frodo a visit. I cannot express enough our regret about the accident and how relieved we are that he is alive."

"What is this racket?" The healer bustled into the front room, carrying bloody towels. Bilbo groaned at the sight of the blood and sank onto a bench, holding his head. He looked suddenly weary, aged by grief, and Faramir wished there was something he could say to comfort him.

The healer started when he saw Faramir and Boromir, but suddenly he grinned. "You came back! Frodo was disappointed when you left –" He looked at his son, and his face darkened with annoyance. "Sammy, you're still here? I asked you to go home. Your mother's expecting you!"

"Father, please don't send me home," Sammy pleaded. "I can't bear being at home not knowing…I want to be here when he…when he wakes."

Bilbo looked up, his face hard again. "I want these men out of here, Master Rushlight. It sickens me to look upon them. And if they will not leave willingly, I will beg Gandalf and his ranger friend to remove them by force when they return."

"Do not be absurd!" Boromir cried, and when Faramir held up his hand to silence him, he turned to his brother in a fury. "What does he mean, treating us as common criminals? As if we'd done this purposefully…as if we've gone into the Shire with the intention of harm!"

"You had no right to be there at all!" Bilbo said, his blue eyes unyielding.

"Mr. Baggins," Sammy broke in. "If you please…I don't mean disrespect, but Frodo understands that it was an accident. He already forgave them and he wants to see them. They really did all they could to save him."

"Frodo is in no condition to see anyone," Bilbo said with a trembling voice, and the harsh expression on his face melted. "My sweet Frodo." He blinked back tears. "I'd do anything to trade places with him." Sammy did what Faramir had longed to do -- he put his arm around the old hobbit, who leaned against him as if all his strength were gone.

Faramir glanced warily at Bilbo before finding a seat on another bench. Boromir joined him, clearly trying to curb his irritation. All they could do now was wait, though Faramir refused to believe that fate would be so cruel as to allow Frodo to die now.

***

The cloaked man stepped into the cottage without knocking, startling Faramir from his doze. Boromir was in a deep sleep beside him, his head propped against the wall. The cloaked man was dressed in green, similar to the rangers who guarded Ithilien. This man's eyes were gray and keen, and he nodded briefly before asking in a low but cautious voice, "There is a very ill halfling here?"

"Yes," Faramir said. He had heard no update from the healer, and he hoped that was a good sign. "Will you be able to help him?"

"I will do everything in my power to do so. I have known Gandalf the Grey for many years, and this halfling is very dear to him."

"Then you are most welcome here."

Without another word, the ranger went through the door where the healer treated his patients.

***

Whenever Frodo moved, pinpricks of sharp pain spread over his abdomen. He groaned, struggling to open his eyes, and when he did, a frightening, hooded figure loomed over him.

"No!" He shrank back, kicking frantically. "Stay away!" The pinpricks of pain exploded into an all encompassing fiery agony, and he sagged limply into his pillow, gasping for breath. Large hands pinned his shoulders down.

"Who are you?" Frodo said hoarsely. "Bilbo!"

"Please help him," he heard Bilbo whisper, and Frodo immediately relaxed. The hooded figure could not be bad if Bilbo was begging him to help. "Now you are only frightening him."

The hood was suddenly gone, revealing a face both kind and stern. The Man smiled and his eyes softened, and this put Frodo at ease. "I am sorry for frightening you, Frodo. I am called Strider, and I will do my best to help you feel better. It looks like Master Rushlight did an excellent job at keeping the wound clean. You got quite a knock in the belly, didn't you, Master Baggins?"

Frodo groaned and shut his eyes. He felt dizzy and disjointed, but he felt safe in the hands of the kind man. Strong hands tilted his head back and held his chin steady.

"There now, my boy, swallow Strider's tea." Bilbo said.

Hot, bitter liquid went down Frodo's throat. He tried to move his mouth away, but firm hands made certain that he swallowed nearly the whole mug of tea.

"Bilbo," Strider said as if from a great distance, placing a strong but warm hand on Frodo's brow. "The good news is that Frodo will recover. He was in deep shock but he has passed the point of danger. If he was going to bleed to death, I would not have made it in time because he would have perished within a few hours of being hit. There now, Bilbo, do not fear, for that is not the case. Now all he needs is rest."

"Bless you…bless you!" Bilbo cried out, throwing his arms around the tall ranger. The Man smiled kindly and patted Bilbo's back.

Frodo watched through half closed lids as Strider squeezed Bilbo's shoulders and said, "I have done nothing. I have merely given him tea to help him relax and sleep."

***

The first face Frodo saw upon awakening was Sammy.

"Hoy, Frodo, you're awake!" Sammy cried, jumping from his stool, a delighted grin on his face.

"Sammy?" Frodo whispered weakly. His muscles felt heavy and he could not wriggle his fingers without great effort. Sammy had opened the window, allowing a fresh spring breeze to blow over his sweaty brow. "Where is Bilbo and the hooded stranger? What has happened?"

"It's a long story, too long, as I'm not to disturb you for long. But…I'm happy you're awake!"

"No, tell me," Frodo said. The effort of talking hurt his head, and he closed his eyes. "What happened? I remember walking with you…"

Sammy was silent for so long that Frodo opened his eyes, wondering if Sammy had left. "Frodo," Sammy finally said. "You think of me as your friend, don't you?"

"Why, of course," Frodo said. "What is the matter? You are worrying me."

"I am afraid that when you find out what happened, you will not wish to be my friend any longer, and I can't say as I blame you."

Frodo looked at him, puzzled. "Did you hit me?"

"No!" Sammy looked even more agitated. "I'd never do that."

"Then why should I be angry with you?"

"Well, it's like this." But before he could tell the tale, he startled as if remembering something more important. "What am I doing? There's some folk that want to see you real quick."

"Don't try to change the subject," Frodo said, smiling. "Out with it already."

"But these men have been waiting all night," Sammy said. "They won't budge until they see you, and Father wouldn't let them in until you woke up."

"Men?" Frodo asked, puzzled. Could it be? He let out a pleased gasp and turned to Sammy, his blue eyes wide with joy. "Did they come back?"

Sammy nodded eagerly. "Bilbo tried to send them off. He was really put out."

"Oh, Sammy, send them in now!"

Sammy ran to get the men, and Frodo settled into his pillow, feeling warm and cozy. He was certain the herbs would wear off and he would soon feel pain again, but for now, he would just enjoy being cared for. When he had first been aware of being in the healer's cottage, he had been alone, frightened, and in pain. Now he had made friends of the healer and his son, the kind men had come back, and Bilbo and Gandalf had come.

"Frodo?"

The two Men smiled down at him. How pleasingly different it was to gaze upon their exotic faces while he was not in horrific pain!

"I'm glad you came back," Frodo said, shifting in his bed, wincing when the pain in his stomach flared.

"Don't move." The one who had carried him for so long in the wild steadied his shoulders. "We cannot have you opening the wound again."

"How did you know to come back?" Frodo clutched the Man's arms. "It's so good to see you! I'd wanted to thank you--"

"Thank us?" The Man who shot Frodo looked surprised. "We should be begging your pardon."

"Who are you?" Frodo asked. "I never learned your names!"

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. This is my younger brother Faramir." He stared determinedly at his brother. "I will not keep my name a secret from one who nearly died at my hands."

Frodo looked at them, his lips parting in awe. To think that the heir to the Steward of Gondor had accidentally shot him, but had then gone through so much grief because of it! Frodo was but one small hobbit, hardly significant to Men who came from such a grand city. And not just any Men. The sons of the Steward.

"Frodo Baggins at your service," Frodo said in a dazed voice, though the Men already knew his name.

 

***

 

"Hobbits truly are amazing creatures," Gandalf said, puffing on his pipe. Frodo grinned at the wizard, his blue eyes bright and curious. He was sitting up in bed, propped against several pillows, his arms crossed in front of him.

"Come now, Gandalf, you're not getting off so easily! Tell us more about your visit in Rivendell with the elves!" He looked fondly at Sammy, who sat on a stool beside the bed. "Folk in Bree don't know much about the elves."

"That's right!" Sammy said. "I want to hear about the elves. If not from you, I will beg a tale from Faramir. He and his brother aren't leaving until next week."

"Come now, Sammy," Bilbo said, waving his hands in mock impatience. "Nobody tells a better tale than Gandalf and it's best if we allow him to do so."

"All right," Gandalf said. "One tale. Then we must allow Frodo to sleep. It's only been a few days since he woke."

The healer started a kettle on the fireplace before taking his leave. When the water boiled, Sammy served the four of them soothing lemon tea garnished with mint leaves. After a few sips of the tea, Frodo closed his eyes, entranced by Gandalf's low, rumbling voice as he brought Rivendell to life with his words.

"I believe he's sleeping," Sammy whispered.

"You're right," Gandalf said. "We should go at once."

"He was up all those nights worrying about me," Frodo said, opening his eyes. The three of them watched Bilbo as he snored in his chair, oblivious to all the attention on him.

"Dear Frodo," Gandalf said, placing his hand on the young hobbit's brow. "Sleep well tonight."

"I will, Gandalf. Take care of Bilbo."

"That I will."

Frodo watched through half closed lids as Gandalf gently lifted Bilbo from his chair. The wizard wrapped him in the hobbit's faded travel cloak, cradling him in his arms like a child. He beckoned to Sammy to follow him out.

Frodo fell asleep with vision of faraway Elven realms in his head.

 

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Frodo had to laugh. He imagined that the group of nine gathered around Mrs. Rushlight's wooden table was the most interesting bunch the kind wife of the healer had ever seen – Frodo and Bilbo, Boromir and Faramir, Sammy, his two little sisters, Gandalf, and the healer.

"I've heard so much about you, you dear thing." The healer's wife kissed Frodo's cheek. "I'm so glad you're all better, though I know Sammy's going to miss you."

She had put cushions on the chairs that Frodo and Bilbo sat on so that they could comfortably eat at the table. Frodo's feet dangled far off the ground, but he was content.

"And I'll miss him, too." Sammy looked crushed at the idea of Frodo leaving the next day. "But we will write, won't we?"

Sammy nodded. "I've known my letters for a good while now, though I'll be starting to learn father's craft soon."

"A more noble craft you cannot find," Gandalf said, winking at the young man.

"Thank you, sir." For a moment, Sammy seemed to forget his sorrow while he basked under the wizard's praise.

"You're heading for the Shire tomorrow?" The healer's wife asked of Bilbo.

"We hope," Bilbo said. "The ranger Strider and your husband both gave Frodo the go ahead to travel and I know he misses his home."

"And," Frodo added. "Sammy is always welcome to visit, Mrs. Rushlight, though he might have difficulty not banging his head on our ceiling. And I will come back when I've recovered more."

"And someday both of you lads must come to our city," Boromir said. "You would be most welcome."

"Yes," Faramir said. "We would be proud to show you our towers and winding streets. I would have you listen to the trumpets and see our soldiers in their livery."

Frodo and Sammy beamed at each other.

"Oh, yes," Frodo said. "We would love that."

The healer's wife served steaming plates of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and something else that made Frodo's eyes widen in joy.

"Mushrooms!"

"I told her," Sammy said with a grin. "I said hobbits love mushrooms but she already knew."

"You can't live around Bree all your life and not learn something of the Little Folk," the healer's wife said. "I got the recipe from a hobbit who works for us."

Bilbo rubbed Frodo's shoulder. "My boy's always loved mushrooms, more so than is natural for even a hobbit."

Soon food was piled high on everyone's plates. The fire in the hearth crackled, sending waves of warmth over Frodo. He had never felt so content, surrounded by the people he loved and the people he had come to adore in a short time.

Faramir raised his mug of ale. "A spread this good would be difficult to find even in our castle in Minas Tirith."

"I must agree," Boromir said. "If any good came out of this, it is that I have come to a greater appreciation of the people and lands nearly forgotten by Gondor."

"And I'm glad I got to meet you," Frodo said. "All of you."

"Let us have a toast," Boromir said. "To Minas Tirith, to Bree, to the Shire, and most of all, to Frodo's recovery."

"I will second that," Bilbo said, smiling at Faramir and Boromir.

***

 

Faramir and Boromir urged their horses through the early morning mist. The chattering of birds was the only other sound, as the sun had barely begun to rise. Faramir's heart was joyful.

"We will be arriving home much later than father was expecting us, but I am glad beyond words that we turned back."

"Aye," Boromir said. "It was a sweet ending, else we would have gone home believing he was dead."

"He must be truly special," Faramir said thoughtfully. "He is dear to Gandalf the Gray, and that is no small matter."

"You can keep your wizards," Boromir said. "But I will agree that the halfling is dear. I was sad to part from him."

"I hope he will come to our city one day," Faramir said. "Or perhaps we will return to these northern lands."

"Perhaps," Boromir said. "And I will leave my arrows behind."

 

THE END


End file.
